


Burned Out

by Monicaoakwood



Series: The Wish [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock BBC, Sherlock Holmes - fandom
Genre: Gen, Greg Lestrade - Freeform, Implied Johnlock, It gets dark but then really happy, John Watson - Freeform, John dies but not really, M/M, My First Work, Post-Reichenbach, Sally Donavan - Freeform, Sherlock - Freeform, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, Star!John, Starjohn, Starlock, but really Johnlock, he comes back I promise. sorta
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2014-07-26
Packaged: 2018-01-18 05:09:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1416256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monicaoakwood/pseuds/Monicaoakwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Young Sherlock Holmes always wanted a friend, so when he wished upon a star he knew it was too good to be true. Years have passed, but can he let go?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Alternative universe based off of the wonderful shootbadcabbies.tumblr.com 's comic(s) of the wonderful star!John

   Sherlock was just wrapping up a particular tedious case that consisted of several rather obscure homicides. The case consisted of a rather nasty rouge circus clown who killed his victims by dressing them up as clowns, and killing them in some nasty and creative circus themed way. The execution of the murders consisted of everything: from magic tricks gone horribly wrong, to poisonous clown face paint, which was put on a very unfortunate middle aged woman.

   The paint contained a corrosive poison which had caused her skin quite literally melt off of her face. As Sherlock stood inside Lestrade’s office he frequently paced around the room, using his hands to illustrate and tell the detective inspector of all the brilliant details. His movements were sharp and calculated, but had an edge to them that made the consulting detective seem almost giddier than usual.

   Then again, that was normal for Sherlock after he solved a difficult and exciting case, such as this one. Currently he was quickly debriefing Lestrade over the details of the murderous clown’s motive, as the other struggled to write down every word Sherlock was telling him, so he could file and submit some kind of annoying paperwork to his boss in order to officially close the case. Then, just when Sherlock was finally getting to the best part of his story he received John’s text.

   Sherlock groaned in annoyance and excused himself from Lestrade’s office so he could find out what it was John could possibly want at this inopportune moment. Once Sherlock was out of the room he took out his phone, then opened up the text message to see what exactly it was that his annoying flatmate could want. The text read as following:

I think it’s time for me to go now Sherlock. JW 

   Sherlock paused for moment to look the text over again to make sure he had read it correctly before he started to type back a response. 

What are you talking about? Is something the matter? SH 

   He hit the send button then pocketed his phone and returned to debriefing Lestrade expecting John to reply soon, since he normally liked to get back to Sherlock as soon as was appropriate for him. Naturally, John responded about five minutes later forcing Sherlock to excuse himself once more to see what was going on. It was strange for John to reply in five minute increments.   

   Usually the doctor replied within at least a 45 second, to a minute time slot from the moment John receives a text. John must haven currently been very preoccupied with something at the moment. Perhaps something was bothering the blogger. Sherlock suspected his flatmate’s pseudo-sister’s recent drinking relapse had finally come into light. Yes, that was most likely the case.

I mean that my time with you is diminishing and that I have to go back from where I came. JW

   This was becoming rapidly a very tedious and annoying conversation. Sherlock quickly typed out his response again as his eyebrows furrowed together and the ends of his mouth dipped down into an disapproving scowl.

John, stop talking in annoying riddles and tell me what is going on. SH 

Ok, well I have to go back to the sky or else I will…JW 

For god’s sake, John. You will what? SH 

I will die. JW 

   It took few minutes to register what John had just informed Sherlock before he could respond. Die? That was utterly and absurdly incorrect. There was no way that John was dying, he was perfectly healthy for a man his age, and there weren’t any signs that would have told Sherlock otherwise.

   He would have noticed if John was expressing any signs of illness. There wasn’t any possible explanation, other than John was wrong, and was simply overreacting to a small cold. Even though John was never known to be one for dramatics, he was probably just experiencing a severe cold that causes paranoia. Come to think of it, John hadn’t been sleeping well for a few nights. Yes, that must have been the reason. 

  It was common knowledge that sleep depravation had great impact on most, if not all living things, and, although John wasn’t exactly human, he still acted and behaved like a normal human who got sick, and could get a bit loopy from lack of sleep for a prolonged period of time. The detective supposed he should have seen this coming for quite sometime now. Lately, the two of them had been taking case after case, with little to no breaks in between. It was only natural for John to reach his breaking point sooner or later. 

Don’t be ridiculous John. You are perfectly healthy. Now, What is the real reason you have contacted me? I would prefer the actual reason this time instead of some absurd idea of you dying if you don't mind. SH 

Sherlock I’m not lying, I’m trying to be serious, please just listen. JW 

   Sherlock let out a great sigh of annoyance and explained to Lestrade that he needed to get some fresh air, also that they would finish the debriefing at a later time. 

Very well. I suppose I can indulge you with this game for a bit. Why will you die if you don’t go back? SH 

Well, a star’s life expectancy is based on how big it is the biggest stars live the shortest amount of time. Because of that their deaths are the most explosive and violent since they have so much mass. The type of star that I am is something along the lines of a sentient being, which is able to project itself onto any plane it chooses. This is only because, in a sense, I am like a great big mass of pure energy so much so that I am able to form coherent thought. JW 

John, you know I don’t understand astronomy in the slightest. SH 

Right. Um, every star gives off light. Sometimes when stars give off too much light they create a smaller star with the energy they have left over, aka wishing stars, these stars have certain unusual traits, which is why they haven’t been discovered yet by your scientists. JW 

Bloody hell, just get to the point! SH 

My life is connected to the star that has made me. That particular star is about to die. I need to go out and find a new host star before I run out of the energy I get from my connection to my current host star or, I’ll die. JW 

Oh, then why didn’t you say so? I’ll tell Mrs.Hudson you went away for a bit and you can be back in the flat in, what a month? SH

Sherlock, it’s not like that. It takes thousands of years to create a connection to another host star. And even if I did come back I wouldn’t be the same. A host star makes a wishing star in their own image. I would look differently, act differently, and be a completely different person from who I am now. I wouldn’t remember who I was before or anything I did or said during that time. The contract that we made with one another, when you asked for me to grant your wish and I accepted your terms, would be over and done with. Our bond, our friendship, would hold no value or meaning to me anymore. It would be like meeting a stranger. JW  

   By this time Sherlock had stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. After being bumped into and yelled at a few times for being an idiot, as well as just getting in the way of a few business men; most of which were on their way to sleep with their personal secretaries while their wives were at the bar getting drunk. Did he finally move out of the way.

   Wandering a bit he soon found himself a bench to collect himself as he sat down on it Sherlock took a few deep breath so that he wouldn’t start breaking down right then and there. Even so, it still took a long time before Sherlock found that he could respond to John’s message again. Even when he did find the capacity to type out a message it only read as a stupid, and very insufficient: 

Oh. SH 

I just thought I should tell you, before I left that is. If you don’t mind I would like it if we could spend time with each other for a few hours before I go. JW 

Of course. How long until you have to go? SH 

   There was another long pause that John took before he sent his next message. Sherlock’s felt like an invisible rug had just been swept right out from under him and his chest was feeling as if someone had just taken a knife and stabbed him in the back repeatedly. 

Five hours. JW 

  That made Sherlock’s blood run cold. No. There was no way that John was going to be taken from him in five hours.

  This was where he was drawing the line. He had let John had his fun, and now it was time to cease this horrible game that he was playing with Sherlock. How could John be joking about something like this?

   He knew that he was probably the most important aspect to Sherlock in the entire world, and now he was playing some kind of sick and twisted joke about leaving him? No. He refused to allow this kind of thing to go on any longer, Sherlock really didn’t care how bloody funny John thought this was, it was not acceptable, and Sherlock was going to make sure that he put an end to it now. 

Shut up. I don’t like this game anymore. Just tell me what you want. Is this some idiotic ploy to get me to go get some jam? Fuck you John Watson, get your own bloody jam! Also don’t think that you can blame it on your sodding leg, it hasn’t bothered you for months nor has it bothered you recently, so you can walk to Tesco’s yourself and get some goddamn jam for your stupid overcooked, and usually burnt toast!!!! SH 

I’m sorry Sherlock. JW 

  Sherlock scoffed at John’s text and angrily pocketed his phone again storming out of the Yard. How dare John do this to him?! This was probably pay back for the decapitated head in the microwave John had found last week. God, if this was his idea of pay back John could keep his bloody fridge, it wasn’t like Sherlock really used it for it’s intended purpose anyway.

   The Detective reasoned it was probably best for him to clear his head, so he ended up deciding to walk around London a bit to get some fresh air, well as fresh as the air in London could get anyway. He made himself focus on the sidewalk in front of him as he looked away, and struggled from deducing things about the people who passed him by. By now he did such things almost instinctively, which as helpful for cases the skill was, it still sometimes acted like a great burden for the pale skinned raven haired man to bear.

   It had been approximately five minutes and Sherlock was still seething when he received the next message from John. 

Please forgive me. JW 

  Still ignoring John’s messages Sherlock picked up his already brisk pace and glowered at the sidewalk still endeavoring to ignore the multitude of people who passed him by.

   Twenty minutes later Sherlock received yet another message from John.

Please Sherlock, I don’t want to be alone when I leave. Please. JW  

   It wasn’t fair that John said things like that when Sherlock was trying to be mad at him. Yet, somehow John always said something to Sherlock, if he was upset or frustrated, that made him stop what he was doing and calm down a bit. He typed out a message and started to call for a cab. 

You will not be alone when you leave. SH 

Thank you. JW 

   The entire cab ride was torture. The damn cabbie just had to stop at every damn traffic light, and stop sign imaginable. Then when Sherlock though it couldn’t get any worse the cabbie had to turn around because there was a bloody accident, which meant he had to take that long way back to Baker Street. Which turned out to be 20 minutes longer then the normal route.

   He had only about 4 hours and 30 minutes left with John by the time he had gotten to the flat finally. He quickly went up the stairs and unlocked the flat, closing the door behind him, not even bothering to taking off his coat and scarf. No, that would only waste more time that he had left with John. 

   The detective quickly scanned the room for his friend when he saw him sitting sown in his old victorian style chair, gripping the arms of the chair tightly, as if he were to let go he would find himself floating away into the heavens with no chance of ever coming back if he were to let go. His face was not that of it’s normal bliss and enjoyment if life. However when the Doctor noticed Sherlock had entered the room his face lit up into what was at least a facade of joy and thrill for living.

 _John_ …

   And just like that Sherlock was eight years old once more. It had started on a warm August night. August 6th to be exact. Sherlock was looking up at the sky from his second story window in his bed room trying to nurse the black eye that some idiot had given him earlier that day on the play ground, because Sherlock had told him that his mommy and Daddy didn’t love each other anymore.

   He didn’t mean to get punched in the face, but he had to tell stupid face he was wrong. It was obvious by his mother’s perfume that she wasn’t where she should have been last night. Not to mention that his father’s tie looked like it had been worn at least two days in a row. 

   At first it had been going well, in fact, Sherlock thought that he had finally found himself a real friend. They both thought the bees were really really cool, and that they both played a stringed instrument.

 However the other kid started talking about wishes and magic stars and well, one thing lead to another leaving Sherlock with a black eye, and a bloodied knee as well as no magnifier for two weeks, while the other boy got away with everything because his parents were more concerned with their upcoming divorce than disciplining their own son. 

   Sherlock knew there was no such thing as wishing on magic stars. Whoever said otherwise was stupider than he was, and according to Mycroft, that was really stupid. The small boy sighed softly to himself and looked up at the night sky where millions of stars twinkled softly above his head peppering the night sky with their light.

   He almost felt jealous of the stars. For things so far apart from one another they at least still had each other. Oh great, now he was actually comparing himself to a thing that wasn't even alive. But still, why should the star have one another when he is so lonely.

   It wasn’t fair! Now glaring up at the sky he stood up and scoffed at it. shaking his small fists at it in rage, as he stamped his foot, and stuck his tongue out of his mouth at the sky making numerous faces and taunts to make the sky feel bad.

   He really was freak…

   As the hurtful word rang and echoed inside his head Sherlock shrunk back down to a ball and clutched his knees close to his chest to make the aching feeling in his chest go away. Even though he knew it never really did. At lest, not since Redbeard was taken away from him.

   It wasn't the first time he had been called a freak. Everyone in his school seemed to unanimously agree that was his title. However, no matter how many times he tried to tell himself otherwise, it still hurt.

  He glared up at the stars once more wiping a few stray tears from his cheeks, and puffing out his chest to seem brave like Redbeard was, as well as the pirates that his Mummy told him about in the stories they read together, before he went to bed, he addressed the sky..    

 “Alright then,”

   He said to the stupid stars that weren’t magical.

 “If magic exists then how about this: I wish I had a friend who won’t leave and will punch people who are mean to me in the face! I wish fir a friend who wont leave me! I wish for a friend who will love me for who I am and will never ever call me a freak! I wish for a friend to be loyal and kind to me!”

  Sherlock waited for a few moments before punching the windowsill with his tiny fist as more tears began to overflow and stream down his face, his hand began throbbing in a dull pain from the force of his punch before he started to scream up again.  

"…Well go on then!”

   Sherlock fumed yelling out at the night sky like he was crazy. Maybe he really was crazy? If that was the case then Sherlock could see why people called him a freak. The little Holmes boy waited for one, two, three, ten minutes, tears now forming a small puddle on the floor beneath his feet seeing as couldn’t make them stop. Finally, Sherlock looked down at the floor and turned his back to the sky telling himself not to cry anymore. It just wasn’t worth it. 

“Stupid stars, I knew they weren't special.”

   The boy sobbed softly. Deep down, he actually did want to believe that he would be given a friend, looking back at the night sky before closing his window, Sherlock walked back to his bed where his skull Billy was.

   Sherlock took the skull, currently his only source for companionship that he knew of that wouldn’t push him down to the ground, or call him a freak, off of the shelf and cradled the cranium in his hands walking over to the bed. Sherlock set the skull in front of him so that it was facing the small eight-year-old, situating himself so that Sherlock was more comfortable on the bed he looked at Billy seriously, so that he could tell him this important thing he had learned today. 

“Stars are stupid, ok Billy?”

   Sherlock stated trying to act like he wasn’t so alone in the world. Just then a great whizzing sound followed by a loud thud was made outside. Sherlock quickly jumped at the loud noise and gripped onto his skull tightly.

   What could _that_ have been? Maybe it was a secret government thing that Mycroft was always talking about. Or maybe an alien from outer space? Or maybe a pirate alien from out space? Or maybe it was a pirate bee alien from outer space!!! At this thought Sherlock quickly leapt into action to investigate.

   Putting his beloved Billy back on the shelf he quickly opened his drawer and scrambled to take out his trusty flashlight. Now armed with the bright light in hand and scooping up one of his favorite stuffed animals, or insects rather seeing at it was a stuffed bee, Sherlock stepped into his boots and snuck downstairs past his parents room and Mycroft’s room to see what was going on outside. 

   Once Sherlock was in his backyard he turned on his flashlight and ventured out into the unknown. Clutching his bee tightly and close to his chest he felt a bit of fear rising in his stomach. What if the alien bee pirate wasn’t friendly? What if it was going to take Sherlock back to his home planet? Or worse…What if it was like Anderson!? 

   The light in his hand began shaking as he trudged around outside a bit less confident that the eight year old was a first now that it seemed like impending doom was at hand. Suddenly there was a snap hear behind him. 

  Shouting out in terror Sherlock threw his stuffed bee at whatever it was and dropped his flashlight so he could then run and duck behind a tree. Oh god, this was going to be the end! He hoped that Mycroft wouldn’t touch any of his experiments if he were to be taken hostage. 

  Just then a small hand tapped Sherlock’s shoulder. Jumping at the touch Sherlock looked behind him to come face to face with a boy about his age who was looking at him like an idiot instead of hiding. 

"Are you crazy!?" 

   Sherlock hissed at the stupid idiot as he was gob-smacked at this new level of moron. Pulling the boy behind him so that they could hide together Sherlock looked out from the hiding place heaving a huge sigh of relief then looked back at the boy. 

"Gee, what are you trying to to do get yourself- Whoa!!! My god! Put on some clothes!" 

  Sherlock screeched out in shock covering his eyes. 

"Geez kid what the fudge is wrong with you!?" 

   Sherlock snapped and began to quickly drag him inside away from the threatening bee alien thing. quickly locking the door behind him and dragging him by the arm into the laundry room Sherlock thrust a shirt and a pair of trousers into the kid’s hands. 

"Here put these on."

   Sherlock ordered the blond kid and turned his back to give him some privacy. Seriously though, who was this guy? And why was he naked? More importantly why was he in Sherlock’s back yard? None of it made any sense! 

   However Sherlock’s train of thought was quickly interrupted by a hand on his shoulder once more. Turning around to see the kid now not so naked Sherlock nodded to himself contently. The clothes sagged a bit, but it was better than nothing, and, until the kid was back with his parents, he figured they would do for now. 

"Right. So, down to business, who are you, and what are you doing in my backyard?" 

   Demanded Sherlock firmly crossing his arms determined to get some answers. The boy looked at Sherlock and smiled at him goofily before holding up his index finger which began to….HOLY COW!!!

   The next thing Sherlock remembered was finding himself in his bed looking up at the ceiling and seeing stars. Wait a minute… those weren’t stars! Quickly sitting up his head collided with the glowing boy’s head creating a dull thud.

   Now groaning in unison, both of them rubbed their foreheads, now that a small red bump appeared, where they had collided. The glow which was radiating from the boy’s skin quickly fizzled and went out, almost like it was a candle being snuffed out from the shock of colliding with Sherlock’s cranium. 

   After a moment of disorientation and confusion the boy looked at Sherlock  worriedly and gasped out in horror upon seeing him in pain. The boy soon took Sherlock’s head in his hands, then leaned forward to kiss Sherlock’s bump on the forehead leaving a glowing mark on his head. The mark which soon disappeared as it faded into Sherlock’s skin filling him up with warmth, also making the pain go away quicker than it normally would have. 

   Unsure of what exactly to do in this situation Sherlock shook his head out of the boy’s grasp and backed away from the glow-boy and grabbed onto the covers as a way of protection before he spoke once more, making sure there was a good amount of distance in between Sherlock and whoever this kid was. 

"W-What are you?" 

   The boy looked at Sherlock for a moment in shock as if this was the most stupid question in the world that Sherlock could have asked him then pointed to Sherlock smiling warmly. 

"I’m your friend."

   Huh? He couldn’t have heard that right. Sherlock didn’t have friends. He was a freak! He was the one other kids punched in the face because he couldn’t keep his big mouth shut!

   Now glaring at the boy he shoved him over and tried to push him off of the bed out of rage. 

"I don’t have friend you jerk face now leave me alone! I bet you’re just going to hurt me and call me a freak! Well forget it I wont let you! Not anymore!" 

   Sherlock didn’t know why he was getting so worked up about it. Maybe it was because it was too good to be true. In fact that was probably the case, still he wished that he could at least stop crying every time he was reminded how alone he was yet again.

"No no wait! I’m your star!"

  The smaller boy cried out latching himself onto Sherlock hugging him tightly. 

"I won’t leave you and I will punch people who are mean to you in the face! I won't leave you! I will love you for who you are and will never ever call you a freak! I promise to be loyal and kind to my wisher! Please!"

   Sherlock paused and looked at the boy who was practically wrapped around his torso almost like he was clutching onto him for dear life. This was crazy even for Sherlock’s standards. How could this _kid_  be Sherlock’s star like he claimed him to be? It just didn’t make any sense!!

   Scoffing and still trying to pry the little bugger off of him only making the stupid kid tighten his grip Sherlock threw up his hand in frustration and just gave up. 

"Please don’t send me away." 

   God when would this kid just give up already!? 

"Look I don’t know who you a-" 

"My name is John. I’m your star." 

"No you’re some kid who probably got brain damage from walking into a nuclear power plant like an idiot. Now shut up." 

   Sherlock snapped back quickly, amazingly, this kid (John apparently) actually listened to him. Strange. Most of the time people ignored Sherlock and everything he had to say because of his sociopathic behavior. This was definitely a first. 

   Nonetheless Sherlock continued to speak his mind in the most blunt way possible, mostly due to the fact that this was the only way he knew how to communicate with other people and not sound like an idiot, like everyone else was. 

"You are not a star, you are not my friend, and you are not staying here. Now get out of my house." 

   Silence filled the flat for a moment until John just looked at him and nodded his head as his head sadly bowed in sorrow. Almost like Sherlock had just taken his favorite toy right out of his hands and then ran away with it forever. John then unlatched himself from Sherlock and walked out of the room closing the door behind him. The curly haired boy waited in the silence, and seclusion of his bedroom for a moment before shaking the strange events that just transpired out of his memory fort, and tucking himself underneath the covers, falling fast asleep. 

   It wasn’t until the morning that Sherlock remembered that he had left his trusty flashlight and stuffed bee outside all night. So, with a yawn and head full of matted curls that stuck out every which way, Sherlock drowsily went back outside only to trip at the bottom of the stairs over something which shouldn’t have been there. 

   As both the two boys tumbled onto the floor sprawling out over one another Sherlock exclaimed out in pain and red hot fury. 

"YOU IDIOT LOOK WHAT YOU MADE ME DO! I THOUGHT I TOLD YOU TO GET LOST NOW BEAT IT!" 

   John looked at Sherlock sadly as tears started to well up in his eyes. 

"B-but friends don’t leave…" 

   Sherlock was about to yell at him again, he really was going to. However for some reason he found that he got that bad feeling in his chest again like he had just done something very very bad. Taking a deep breath to calm himself down, he bit his lip and looked down at his lap.

"I-I’m sorry." 

   The words felt so foreign and alien to Sherlock, it wasn’t like him to apologize to anyone, ever. Especially not kids his own age. However, for some strange ,and bizarre reason, Sherlock felt like he was almost, in a way, responsible for this kid. 

   John, his name was John. 

  Sherlock continued to avoid making eye contact with John even after he had told him that he was sorry. It wasn’t until he felt the blond boy hugging him again that he looked up again, once more in shock. Why was he being so nice to him? 

"It’s ok I forgive you." 

   Instinctively Sherlock pushed the boy away and curled himself up into a tight ball looking at the boy like he was a dangerous weapon about to go off at any moment. After doing so, however, he relaxed and made himself uncoil so that he was more open to the….friend in front of him. 

"Sorry…I’m just…not good at, stuff." 

"I dont care, I still love you for who you are."

   Sherlock stepped forward a little and found his legs moving on their own as he made his way over to his own chair and sat in front of John robotically, for once in his life he wished John was right about him being a machine. Sherlock wished he couldn’t feel anything…

   He wished that his mind consisted of gears and motors whirring and spinning around inside of him to keep him moving. He wished that his body was a mixture of cogs, pulleys, and springs. He wished that he didn't have to see John like he was at this moment before him. He wished it was him instead of John.

  Not only did Sherlock dislike how John was talking about himself dying, John looked horrible. His once bright and shining eyes were now dull and dark with age and use. His once shimmering and glowing skin, which he only let Sherlock see, while they were alone together in each other’s company, was now dim, almost gray in comparison to his old, warm, and comforting glow.

  Even his bright happy go lucky smile seemed to be fading from his face as it didn’t seem to be quite as big ad it once was. His hair no longer gave off the glimmers of light here and there, and his body seemed to be weighted down by some invisible force.

"Hello Sherlock." 

And then there was his voice, his wheezing, hoarse, and barely audible voice which Sherlock had never heard waver until now. The detective forced himself to look up at John as he started to feel water in his eyes well up and threaten to fall down his cheek onto the floor. No, he wasn’t going to cry. If John could get through dying without crying, then so could Sherlock. Blinking the tears out of his eyes Sherlock willed himself not to look away and to listen to what John had to say to him. After all, in only, god no, 4 hours and 15 minutes, John would be gone from his life forever. 

"Sherlock?" 

You idiot say something! 

"Right, h-hello John," 

God that was pathetic, your best friend is dying and you can’t even think of something useful to say! You call yourself a genius but when it comes down to it you can’t even make a full sentence when your best and only friend is about to leave you and never come back! Not surprising though. What a bloody horrible friend you turned out to be, you aren’t even really there for John when he needs you most. You’re just beating up on yourself in a wallowing mass of putrid and disgusting self pity! Do something you stupid stupid stupid idi- 

"Sherlock please look at me for real, I know when you are in your mind palace."

Snapping back into reality John’s face went back into focus, smiling, bright, and yet…fading. But he was still John. No matter what that face would always be the best friend of Sherlock Holmes. Clearing his throat Sherlock sat up straighter in his chair so that he could give John his undivided attention. Right, this was about John now. Not about Sherlock. Focus Holmes. 

"Is there anything I can do to…make it easier for your trip?"  

Even saying the words made Sherlock scream out in horror internally. John shook his head and took Sherlock’s hand in his own giving it a soft but firm assuring squeeze as if to tell him it was going to be ok…

"Sherlock…I’ve made a decision." 

Decision? What decision? What was John talking about? Nothing about their situation at hand made any sense! Why didn’t anything make anymore sense anymore? John took a deep breath and sat back into his chair smiling apologetically. 

"I’m not leaving," 

Processing……Memory found. Open, _I have to go back to the sky or I’ll die. **NO!**_

"Stay, what do you mean stay?! You cant _stay_ John! Are you out of your mind!? No don’t answer that. You cant just stay! John, why the hell would you stay!? You can’t stay!!!” 

Sherlock was beyond avid at this point. He was practically running all around as his hands were absolutely flailing. Going as quick as lighting all around him to help illuminate the multiple points about why, and how stupid it would be if John stayed not to mention how utterly incompetent he would seem if he were to stay for no logical or sanely rational reason for John to remain here just so he could wither up and die! 

"You are not allow to stay John I order you as your wish maker to leave!" 

As soon as he felt the words leave his mouth he clamped a hand over his mouth ceased what he was doing and sunk down to the floor where he was standing.

What was he doing? How could he have said that to him? John wasn’t just a toy or a servant that Sherlock could just order around like a bratty child. John was a living breathing person. God, why was he such a horrible man to the best thing that could have ever happened to him?

Suddenly he felt a hand on his back. Looking up only to see that wonderful and bright face looking over him solemnly with understanding and kindness. 

"It’s ok Sherlock, I know it’s not going to be easy, I know it wasn't for me," 

Ok. Wow, low blow…

"But I know if nothing else that you are the most brilliant man and the best friend I could have ever asked for. Sherlock Holmes, if anyone can be the master of death and all it’s grievances I can say without a doubt in my mind it is you."

"B-But why? Why stay?" 

Sherlock’s voice was wavering and quivering dangerously as he looked up furiously blinking back his tears. No he would not cry. He refused to cry. He couldn’t cry. He had to stay strong for John.

Then there was that smile once more. As John started to sit next to him seeing as his body was quickly wearing out and could no longer support him standing up crouching over his best friend, so instead he sat down next to him and gave him his smile. God that beautiful wonderful and bright smile that made Sherlock’s heart ache when he saw it. 

"Because friends don’t leave." 

"John please, please, I cant let you die, not for me. How could I possibly live with myself? I couldn’t. Please John I am begging you. I will get down on my knees if I have to. Just please. Go." 

"Sherlock, if I am going to die I want to die knowing that I was and am the best man that I could possibly be in the world.

I love being John Watson. I love coming home to Mrs.Hudson making us both a cup of tea ready to offer me one of her homemade biscuits from her oven at the drop of a hat. I love going off on life-threatening insanely dangerous and mind boggling adventures with my best friend Sherlock Holmes. I love making you smile especially when you begrudgingly want to after we have just had a row. I love watching you go off on a deduction. Prattling on about whatever it is you have just solved, trying to at least let me understand how you reached some absolutely far-fetched, and wild conclusion, and yet every time you somehow manage to make it seem like perfect sense when you explain it to me.

I love being me, but most importantly, I love being your best friend. You make me the best person I can possibly be Sherlock Holmes, and that is why, if you wouldn't mind. I would like to die in your company." 

Before Sherlock could completely understand, or comprehend what his muscles were doing, he was hugging John tightly in his embrace blinking back tears furiously. John’s arms wrapped around Sherlock as they made sure that each other was in their embrace.

There are no words available in any language that could possibly comprehend the level of raw human need to assure each other that the other person was their for him in the room at that point. Simple touches and caresses that one gave to the other allowing them to show each other how much them meant to him. John’s hand on Sherlock’s back tracing circles against the small of his back. Sherlock running his hand up and down John’s arm telling himself that John was still there, still his.

It wasn’t until a siren from the outside world pierced the silence within the flat that they finally snapped out of their trance. By now John’s head was in Sherlock’s lap contently. His eyes were closed and his chest slowly moved up and down with each breath he took, as the detective traced over his cheeks, and face softly with his fingers.

Sherlock snapped out of his clouded state back into reality begrudgingly as the sound of the whirring and quite annoying streets of London broke the fragile silence of the flat. It wasn’t until a few moments did Sherlock’s heart drop into his stomach.

Urgently, he searched for the nearest clock around the room. However the moment he saw the clock he wished that he hadn’t looked for one in the first place. No, how what that even possible?! Sherlock stiffened and frozen in shock as he realized what was happening. 

"Sherlock?" 

"Y-Yes John? What is it?" 

"Are you ok? You sound anxious." 

An uncomfortable silence crept its way into the space as Sherlock faltered trying to explain the situation. 

"Sherlock? What’s wrong?" 

Swallowing nervously Sherlock ran his fingers through John’s soft hair unable to look him in the eye. 

"It’s eight twenty five." 

John swiftly sat up as his eyebrows pulled together in confusion. 

"W-what? No that’s impossible." 

Oh if only. Sherlock thought to himself. Only 2 hours and 45 minutes left. 165 minutes, or in short 9900 seconds…now 9840 seconds left.

It wasn’t fair. It simply was not fair.

Sherlock began to sink into a brooding sulk as John got up to make himself a cup of tea. Usually they had ordered takeout and were downstairs chatting with Mrs.Hudson over tea. Or they were at a pub with Lestrade talking about life and other various topics that entered conversation. Tonight, however, was very different. Tonight John’s time belonged to Sherlock. Sure, it was selfish, but he really couldn’t care less. John choose him. Out of everyone in the entire world John choose his wish to grant, he choose to stay his best friend, and John choose him to be the last person he sees before he dies.

So no, they weren’t going to down to the pub tonight, or having tea with their landlady, or waiting for takeout to come. They were with each other, that was all that mattered. 

"Sherlock?" 

Looking up at John once more from his spot on the floor he waited for John to continue what he was going to say.

"Will you play your violin for me? I know you usually hate me asking, but-." 

"What would you like to hear?" 

John looked at Sherlock, his pupils dilated as shock struck across his features for a split second. Momentarily startled by the fact that Sherlock would ever agree to the request, before John smiled once more, making Sherlock's heart have palpitations as it normally did when John looked at him in that way.

John shouldn’t even have to ask for Sherlock to do something as simple as that. If it made John happy with the very little amount of time he had left Sherlock would do it.

As he poured his favorite tea into his best mug, John walked over to sit in his chair and look at Sherlock smiling fondly as he walked over to his violin and bow he put down his mug and settled into his chair. 

"Can you play Twinkle twinkle little star for me?" 

Sherlock hesitated for a moment before nodding, making sure his violin was in tune. Then he took his bow and drew it across the stings confidently yet solemnly.

His fingers moved on their own from memory as his mind reverted back to his childhood. Sherlock toiling over this song for weeks, just so that he would be sure the first song he could play was twinkle twinkle little star for John.

CC GG AA G FF EE DD C GG FF EE D GG FF EE D CC GG AA G FF EE DD C

And that was it.

You would think that after a few days Sherlock would have gotten tired of the violin and just given up, however for some reason John gave him the motivation to keep going. That’s the reason Sherlock got most things accomplished really. It’s for John. Always for John.

When Sherlock was finished he looked at John who smiled at his musician giving him a small round of humble applause. Sherlock nodded modestly at his one audience member and waited fir another request.

After the two of them said nothing Sherlock broke the nothingness that filled the flat this time.

“Would you like to hear anything else?”

John shook his head then took a sip of his tea.

After putting away his violin Sherlock sat down in his chair across for John.

They talked for a long time after that, mostly about the times they had with each other. Cases, fights, jokes, adventures, each other, everything. It wasn't until John paused for a second and heaved a heavy sigh that things got quiet again.

“Sherlock can you come here and tell me what the dark looks like? What color is it?”

It was a strange question, however Sherlock was far to invested in their conversation to think about it, or to bother looking at a clock to see the hand evilly close to the end.

“Well-”

“No, not from over there, could you come sit next to me?”

Hesitating slightly uneasily at the request Sherlock obliged, bringing over a chair from the kitchen he set it down next to John.

John quickly took his hand and leaned his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. The detective raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything of it as he began to explain such n unusual concept as best he could to his best friend.

"Darkness isn’t exactly a color, if darkness was a color it wouldn’t have to be explained, and experienced, in order to fully understand what it is like to be caressed by darkness, and it’s symptoms.

Darkness is a feeling that you get in the spilt second, just after you are awake, and right before you have fallen asleep, when you feel numb. That feeling that you are falling a million miles an hour with no hope of ever stopping, but at the same time you feel rooted and firm into the ground of the reality beneath you. All too aware of what is happening around you.

The feeling of sensitivity you get when you touch something too hot or too cold after a long time of just lying in bed not wanting to face another day again not for the sake of not living, but for the sake of not being.

That slight shiver that you get when you can feel a gentle hand and it’s finger tips as it slides up the spine of your back and then rests somewhere in between your heart and your mind caressing you every now and again to tell you that it is still there on you, allowing you to cradle yourself inside it’s long and reaching arms. Then, once you have allowed it to swallow you, once you have to gotten over the feeling of doubt and uncertainty, bypass the gas station of distrust and suspicion, then take one huge leap of faith over the fear of everything you feel could go wrong before finally it is washed over a sense that you are not in control, and that is ok.

That place where you feel both completely at ease and in the moment, yet also slightly terrified for what is going to come.

You see John, humans try to delude themselves into thinking they live a world full of light, when really, we can hardly even see what we have staring in front of us. To live, is what it is like to be in the dark

….John?"


	2. Incarcerated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is found with John's body.

"…John?"

A hellish, bone chilling, terrifying silence softly seeped itself into the air all around them until it had filled the entire flat. The screeching stillness of the nothing, which surrounded Sherlock, shook the poor man right to the very core of his being. Baker Street, London, Europe, Earth, The very universe itself all seemed to stop at the same time looking through Sherlock’s eyes. The only sound that did not cease with the rest of it all that could be heard was that of Sherlock’s breathing. Expect there was one more sound that filled the silence, a cruel, malicious and unforgiving sound. The monotone laughter created by the most diabolical chimes that had ever pierced Sherlock’s eardrums. That was the sound of the second hand ticking from the incessant clock hanging on the wall.   
It was echoing in the lonely man’s ears, mocking him that time was not his friend. That time had destroyed what he treasured most in the world. That time had taken John away from him. 

Damn time. 

Damn all the years that time had stolen from John. All the years that Sherlock would now have to live alone, slowly decaying into nothing but just another fool in a world of fools. 

All the seasons that John would never see. The sunny days that John would never greet with his smile as bright as the sun in the sky. The rainy days John would never sneer at and moan about as he made himself a warm cup of tea to content himself knowing the dreary weather would cease eventually. The snowy days that John would never take advantage of to wear one of his ugly jumpers. 

The smiles John would never make. The lectures he would never give. The laughter he would never create. The cases he would never blog about. The music he would never hear from Sherlock’s violin. The life he will never have. 

The life he could have had. 

Damn time. 

The detective looked down at his dead friend realizing he had closed his eyes trying to escape reality through the darkness found within the comfort of closing one’s eyes when facing death. His heart pounded against the confining jail cell bars of bone inside his chest many called a ribcage. Sherlock felt the twist and implosion his deceitful heart made in itself. Crumbling apart with every blood pumping destructive heartbeat. Each beat was like an echoing whimper of the last. It kept bending and sinking deeper and deeper into the crevice of Sherlock’s chest cavity wailing out in despair that John wasn’t with him anymore. That John would never be awake anymore. That John would never be alive anymore

John’s eyes were closed. It would have looked like he was asleep if his pulse wasn’t so still, if his breathing hadn’t been so absent if his skin wasn’t so cold to the touch. If John wasn’t so far gone. 

No. 

NO! 

Sherlock whipped his head to the side to look at the clock, the same bully that was mocking him not so long ago. He growled at the machine hanging on the wall before he walked right over to it and chucked it out window crashing to the ground with a satisfying crunch as it hit the pavement. There, now both of the machines were broken.

This couldn't be happening. Not so soon. Not to John. Not to John. Oh god, John. Wake up!! Wake up John…

The broken man walked back to his broken friend and kneeled down once more to cradle the head of his friend in his lap weeping once more. Sherlock looked down at the body of his best friend again desperately searching for some sign of life in the death marked face before him. John’s skin was an unforgiving deathly gray, and Sherlock’s heart screeched out in agonizing grief unable to fathom that the worst was now a reality. 

After a lifetime of examining corpses and cadavers Sherlock had never felt such a despair, grief, ridden heartbreak as he did now. Never had he looked at a dead body before and felt remorse such as this deep cutting sorrow. 

So this is what sentiment was like. To lose someone and feel like they took all of the things that made you work with them.   
It had been such a long time since Sherlock had felt the bitter cold sting of loneliness. Without a doubt in his mind it was worse than he remembered. 

When he looked down at the empty, and cold body of his best friend…John’s dead body, The tears which he had been holding back for so long ran down his cheeks as he let out a pathetic whimper. Cradling John in his arms and gently rocking him back and forth. 

Sherlock's tears began dripping down his cheeks onto John’s jumper. Endlessly calling out his name over and over again. 

"John, John, John, John." 

It was hours until he stopped wailing in anguish. However by then it was already too late. 

…………….

The next day after John’s death Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade had arrived at Baker Street first thing in morning at about 7:03 am so that he and Sherlock could wrap up the case, which the two of them were working on before Sherlock’s whole world had imploded on itself, but Greg didn’t know that. 

The inspector was about to greet the pleasant old landlady that lived there a polite good morning. She also was a sweet kindly woman who had a biscuit or two to spare the detective inspector. She also knew how to keep her boys inline. Especially Sherlock, which was good because everyone needed a Mrs. Hudson in his or her life. It just made things more bearable. However she was apparently out of town at the moment visiting a nephew of hers so Greg supposed it was the thought that counted before continuing on his way to Sherlock’s flat to discus the case then be off.

The more Lestrade ascended the seventeen steps to the familiar flat, of which both his friends the ex army doctor and the current consulting detective resided in, the more he could depict the clear yet remarkable and somewhat chill worthy sound of someone crying.   
Now a bit more cautious than before Greg went up the last few steps bracing himself for something horrible, although he wasn’t exactly sure what to expect. Whatever it was it couldn’t be good. 

Greg knocked on the door and asked to be let inside but the only answer he got was more crying. This was not good. This was very not good. Both men in that flat had nerves of steel for god’s sake. The only time he had seen one of them cry was when the other one d- oh god. 

Greg quickly got to work and found the extra key hidden in-between the floorboards. It took a pen, numerous curse words, and twenty minutes just to get the bloody thing out, but he finally unlocked the door to a sight that would now forever be burned into his memory.   
Sherlock Holmes was crying over a dead man, and that man was John Watson. 

Instinct took over as Greg quickly pulled out his cell phone dialing for an ambulance and backup to his current location. He kept the line just incase someone was to go drastically wrong as he carefully approached the wailing man. 

"Sherlock," 

Greg said carefully trying not to set him off anymore than he already was. 

"Sherlock, come on mate we need to get you to a doctor to make sure you are ok, and we need to get John to someone who can help... Sherlock?"

Before the consulting detective could fully process what was happening he was being dragged away from John and pinned to the ground. He didn’t even say a word, not one that was audible at least. All he did was let out an anguish almost animalistic scream of pain now that he was not by John’s side. A rage unlike anything he had ever felt overcame him. Sherlock began to get violent trying to claw at the hands pinning him down tears in his eyes still flowing down his cheeks preventing him from seeing who his assailant even was.

It didn't matter. All that matter was John needed him. He couldn't let John leave this world without his best friend by his side. He had to be there for John. He had to show John he was loved. He had to showed John that he loved him. However the steel grip pinning Sherlock down did not waver. Someone was screaming at Sherlock to get a grip. He told the voice, who ever it was to go to hell. It wasn’t until something had hit the detective’s head with a dull and resonating thump that the detective stopped trying to tear one of his friends to bits just because he wouldn’t let him near the body.

…………..

Three hours later Sherlock found himself sitting quietly on a bench in Scotland Yard just staring out blankly into space, not listening to the conversation in the other room.

"But what if he did?"   
Donavan asked Lestrade sternly tapping her foot and giving the man a pointed look.   
“I’ve always said that he was a killer, and now this just give us the proof. Sherlock Holmes is a murderer Greg, how can you not see this? You practically caught him in the act!”   
She asked getting irritated as she swung her fist ion the nearby table just to maker he point clear. 

"Look I know what the facts are pointing to but you honestly can not actually be suggesting what I think you are." Greg replied incredulously looking at her as if she had grown a third head. 

"I'm just saying we need to exploit every credible option."   
Donavan replied getting annoyed with the ignorance and blind faith he seemed to have in that man. 

Greg pinched the bridge of his nose and clenched his jaw at Donavan’s remark. He couldn’t believe this was happening all over again. 

"John Watson wasn’t poisoned by Sherlock Holmes!” 

“I’m just saying there was an absurd amount of iron in his blood and with that paint he had in his flat I’m just saying-“ 

“I AM NOT MAKING HIM JUMP OFF ANOTHER BLOODY ROOF LOOK AT HIM FOR GOD’S SAKE!!!" 

Gregory finally snapped at her furiously before grabbing his jacket and storming out of the observation room, which had a one-way window on the other side, if you looked through the window into the gray and monotone looking room. There was a table with an interrogator yelling furiously at Sherlock Holmes who was sitting in the chair opposite the other man. The detective was still crying and blubbering uncontrollably. 

A week later Sherlock found himself in court. The jury's eyes all looked at the famed detective awaiting for some sort of snarky and snide comments directed at someone, anyone, in the room. However none came. Pieces of evidence were presented to the jury one by one. When Sherlock was asked to approach the stand to testify he refused. The broken man couldn’t utter a word. Besides even if he did who would believe him? 

The jury reached a verdict that was, simply put, guilty. The more complex conclusion was thus: It was concluded that Sherlock Holmes had poisoned his flat mate with copious amounts of iron found in his experimentation. Using iron supplements Sherlock then laced the iron in John’s food and drink slowly killing him over the course of several months. 

That wasn’t what happened though. What actually happened was in fact (as Sherlock discovered with one simple and tedious Google search) that the reason for all the iron in John’s blood was in fact that is what is left over when stars die. Iron is the last element stars create before they are destroyed… 

All the same that still wouldn’t pass for a reasonable explanation to any normal and “sane” jury. Sherlock knew this all too well and his pride hubris kept him from pleading insane. He wasn’t insane. He simply knew more then they would ever know. So that left him with only one option:

To accept the fact that he was the murderer of John Hamish Watson.   

A month after John’s death it still hadn't gotten any better for Sherlock. If nothing else it hd gotten much, much worse for the broken shell of a man. The once spry and young detective now had a body of an old decrepit man, which was slowly getting more and more gaunt with each passing day. The cell he now dwelled inside of on a day-to-day basis was dark and cold. Not to mention the fact he had been beaten to a pulp on a regular basis due to the fact that many of the criminals in jail with him only were there because he put them there in the first place. However, that was all tolerable. The one thing that really made the whole situation horrendous was the reason he was there in the first place. 

The night sky flickered with the same stars Sherlock had watched and looked up to for a lifetime. However, ever since John had passed, they just didn’t look the same. They didn’t shine like they used to. And the detective supposed that now they never would.

"I know that you are gone, but I also know that you can grant wishes. Please, if you are out there, if you care about me at all...John I wish you would come back." 

Sherlock begged the night sky as nothing happen. Suddenly a loud metallic clanking sound was heard down the hall and Sherlock turned away from the window to look out between the bars of his cell. 

“Congrats Holmes. You have a new cell mate.” 

The guard sneered before unlocking the bars and throwing the other prisoner inside then closed the bars behind them and locked the doors walking away. 

“Y-You’re Sherlock Holmes?” 

The Irish man asked lifting his head. He had a rustic look about him as well as a beard to match. His eyes were blue like John’s were but his voice was harsh and ragged along with the accent he carried. He had a strong and burly mountain man build about him with a decent height to match his brawn. The horrible jumpsuit, which Sherlock was wearing as well, was far too small for him, but then again Sherlock’s was far too big for himself. Perhaps he could con this man into trading suits with him and get some cigarettes out of him as well. He had, after all, started smoking once again since heroine obviously wasn’t an option to get any hits from any time soon. He had steeled toed leather boots and an all around cruelty about him. Probably a murderer? No something else far more sinister. Sherlock shuddered to think what kind of man the guards, who didn’t take very kindly to the detective at all, have given him. Best not drop anything when around this man. 

Sherlock glowered at this man and walked over to his cot where he crossed his arms and legs sneering at the man. 

“What is it to you?” The ex-detective asked snidely 

“My name is Victor Trevor. I can bring back John.”


End file.
